


Strangers on the Road

by Tseecka



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Earth AU, M/M, Strangers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 22:25:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7732048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tseecka/pseuds/Tseecka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a solo motorbike tour of the Canadian Rockies, John Sheppard stops at a lonely little service station to fuel up. He's been this way before, and knows it should be a quick, five-minute stop--fill his tank and his stomach, empty his bladder, and be back to his campsite in time to enjoy a meal by the fire before the mosquitoes get too bad. Having sex with a know-it-all stranger in a gas station bathroom was definitely not part of the plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strangers on the Road

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snefrue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snefrue/gifts).



_Who needs this many types of beef jerky,_ John muses to himself, staring at the section of snacks with something between awe and bewilderment. He's got a bag of Peppered and a bag of Teriyaki in his hands, and there's some flavour called Cholula still hanging on the peg board that also looks interesting. Although he'd been craving jerky when he pulled into the service station, it's quickly losing its appeal in the face of the sheer number of choices. He's not sure when something as eponymous as _beef jerky_ became so complicated; but maybe a bag of Doritos would be better. 

He grabs a small bag of Cool Ranch and heads up to the till. "Pump five," he tells the cashier, a broad individual with a bored expression on their face. Their nametag says "Alex". The hand they take the Doritos with is bare, in sharp, stark contrast to the solid blocks of colour on their arm; John thinks he sees a lightsaber, somewhere in the mix, but it's hard to tell without staring and they don't look like they're the type to take kindly to such. The scanner beeps, and he's pulling the wallet from his back pocket before they've even had a chance to tell him his total. The chain makes a soft sound as it brushes against his leather chaps. 

He passes the chipped credit card over the terminal, waiting for the confirmatory beep before replacing it in his wallet and stowing the wallet back in his jeans. Alex, to their credit, doesn't even bother asking if he wants his receipt; perceptive, which he appreciates. "Ah--actually, could I grab the bathroom key too?" He grabs the plastic bag with the single bag of Doritos nestled inside, and takes the key on its long plastic tag when Alex slides it across. Their sleeve rides up a little; definitely a lightsaber. "Nice tatts," John adds, and his lopsided smile is actually returned, something he didn't expect. 

"Thanks," Alex says. "There's a drop just outside the bathroom door, if you don't wanna come back in when you're done." John nods in acknowledgement, two fingers to his temple in a casual, reflexive salute, and heads out the service station door. 

When he rounds the corner of the convenience store attached to the gas pumps, he finds his bike exactly where he left it. Dark chassis and bright metal gleam in the early morning sun; it's a beautiful thing, a work of art, and he's used to people staring. So the person standing, tiptoe, on the cement wheel stop, looming over his bike with wide interested eyes, isn't exactly what he'd term a surprise. He looks ridiculous, though, craned in an inflexible arc the way he is. Like he wants to get closer, get a better look, but he's terrified of leaving fingerprints on the chassis. John can appreciate his appreciation. 

As he approaches, the guy hops down from the block--although "hops" might be too generous a word, his body thick and soft and awkward under the dark brown bomber jacket he's wearing. He looks a little nervous, like's he's been caught doing something he shouldn't, but John flashes him a smile to put him at ease. When he smiles back, it looks more like a grimace. "This, uh, this yours?"

"Uh huh." He brushes past the guy, dropping his helmet on the bike's seat, then pops open the top box and tosses in his bag of Doritos. "You like it?" 

"It's sure something." John's not sure if that's admiration or judgement in the guy's voice; he has to turn around, make eye contact, try to suss out the details of emotion in the guy's face, and he manages to catch what looks like an appreciative expression before it's buried under the usual bluster of a man in a midlife crisis, who's always wanted a bike but never been brave enough, or flush enough, to get himself one. The appreciation, however, is not directed at the bike. 

_Huh._ He takes another look, a long look, at the guy, pulling his gloves out of the top box and snapping it shut. Strangely, he reminds John a little of Alex, presumably sitting bored inside the station and waiting for the return of their key, wondering how long it takes a man to shit. He's soft, doughy, thick; not unattractively so, but far from what anyone would call athletic. The leather jacket hides any muscle he might have in his arms, but the shirt underneath is filled out from chest to belly. He's not fat, though, not in any way John would define it; in fact, he looks strong. Bull-like. Broad, just, not defined. John doesn't consider himself to have much of a type, but something about this guy...

He leans back against the bike, her kickstand sturdy enough to support his weight as long as he's careful, and grins at the guy. "You probably haven't seen anything like her before--"

"Oh, no, no, I wouldn't say that," he--scoffs? His voice goes all lofty and judgemental, and it does something interesting to the base of John's spine, even as the interruption snipes at him; he doesn't like people talking over him. "It's a custom job, right? Like, really custom, but honestly, I'd have to be an idiot not to be able to recognize the component parts."

"Or someone who doesn't know much about motorcycles," John snarks back, sarcasm turning his voice into a lazy drawl. The guy gives him a look, long-suffering and smug, like he's known John and been comfortable with John for years--not all of five minutes.

"Oh, _please_ ," he responds. "I don't start conversations about things I don't know much about. And, coincidentally? That's not a lot." He's got a wide mouth; it flaps about when he talks, and John can't decide if it's attractive or repulsive. John spreads his hands, slouches a little more against the bike, and gets a spike of satisfaction when he catches the guy's eyes flit down to where the denim and leather stretches across his hips. He lets a smirk spread across his face. 

"Look. You can keep talking about how you know more about my bike than me--which I doubt, by the way--"

"Because you built it yourself, yeah, yeah, very macho," the guy says dismissively, and John seriously cannot believe where he's about to take this conversation. He very nearly considers just dropping it, brushing past the guy and letting himself into the bathroom and staying for twenty minutes or however long it takes the guy to leave (assuming Alex doesn't call 9-1-1 or something for the presumably dead body in the service station toilet); but there's an edge to the guy's voice, nerves or excitement or something, that makes him think that all this bluster is just a cover, just like John's own dismissive annoyance. Like he really is as smart as he seems to think he is, and he knows exactly where this is going. 

" _But_ , I seriously need to take a leak, so if you want to continue proving how smart you are, you're gonna have to do it in the bathroom." He holds up the plastic tag, key dangling from it, and relishes the flush that spreads over the guy's face, and the way that wide mouth drops open. John shrugs, and pushes away from his bike, shoving the gloves into his pocket and leaving the helmet where it sits.


End file.
